


The Priapus Fig

by oponn



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Casual Sex, Curse Breaking, Curses, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Horror, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Rescue, Sex Pollen, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), sex fruit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-22 23:42:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23502310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oponn/pseuds/oponn
Summary: “The fig tree is cursed. A mage fell in love with a Lord, who in turn married a human woman for love. The mage wasn’t invited to the wedding; she sent this tree as a wedding gift and the couple ate it’s fruit and fell into a trance.”"And then?"“Then they orgasmed until they died," The woman answered cheerfully.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 265





	The Priapus Fig

Jaskier was sulking. 

They’d ridden long and hard through swamps and forests and fought wolves and bears and one starving Bruxa before they’d gotten to a meeting point. There they’d received a contract that took them _further_ North towards Caingorn. Three days passed as they camped in a drafty broken ruin of a castle on the edge of a bog before they – well, _Jaskier_ – managed to encounter the creature sent to destroy the keep and its nearby village. 

Jaskier had never seen a Koshchey before and now that he was soaked in its especially sticky ichor, he was confident he never wanted to see another. 

Then began the onerous journey for payment which resulted in their arrival at their customers’ newly constructed castle; eager to meet the local Lord, of course. This man was known to the Witcher as Lord Gespian. When they arrived, the man was getting back from an official hunt and the attractive redhead maid who received them was quick to offer them – well, _Geralt_ – an extended tour of the new manse. 

They’d been through two courtyards, three studies, a dining hall, a receiving parlour, the main kitchen and were being ushered into a special private garden of the Lord for all his exotic spices, sugars, flowers and fruits. 

“They say some are the strains of plants that Lara Dorren herself curated,” The redhead smiled broadly at Geralt, who was coated liberally with grime and slime, head to toe. He cradled in one arm the broken shell of a large, toxic-looking green egg that he’d smashed with his silver sword to kill the spidercrab. The maid had been as good at ignoring the eggshell as she had Jaskier, who trailed behind them by a few feet with a sour expression on his face. 

“Ooooh plantsss,” He muttered under his breath as they toured through a maze of exotic vines and leaves, from curly and furry to broad and waxy. He was reasonably sure Yennefer had things six times older and more poisonous than this growing on the windowsill above her crypt. Geralt was pretending not to notice Jaskier’s reluctance to do anything but nap while they waited. 

As they wandered through and pushed aside foliage and vines, Jaskier hung back to distance himself from the maid’s constant stream of breathless information, as well as his growing cantankerousness over the fact that Geralt seemed to only reprimand _him_ for talking that much. 

He was sore, he was tired, he wanted a _bath_. 

He was reasonably annoyed that they had been offered a tour of this grandiose castle instead of a place beside the fire and a plate of fruit. Or cheese – god, he missed cheese. 

He came upon a small clearing, ringed with pots of lush plants. Beams overhead were strung with dangling pots that hung wanton flowers out the sides. Geralt and the maid were on the other side of the clearing, lumbering up a path between bushels of fronds. In the center of the clearing was a large gold pot – it was different from the others in the way that it resembled a cauldron on squat curved legs. It had faces on either side with large gold loops – their expressions were twisted as if they didn’t want the rings in their mouths, which caused an amused smile to flicker on his face. In the pot was a neatly pruned fig tree. Its leaves were the deepest green he’d ever seen and the bark had a beautiful purple sheen to it. It was exceptionally laden with fleshy figs, hanging gently from their own little growths on the branches. They were a deep, deep purple with bright red spots. The two largest had small blue cracks in the bottom of the skin and he could smell a sweet, syrupy ripeness that made his mouth water. 

He hesitated to consider his actions for a split second only after he’d already plucked one of the fruits from the tree and crushed it open to reveal its succulent innards. The juice didn’t burn his fingers and the tree didn’t transform into a hissing Djinn so after a moment he shrugged and popped a hunk of bright pink into his mouth, chewing cautiously for a moment. His eyes sunk shut and he moaned slightly before giving the fruit in his hand a surprised expression. 

“Oh, maybe another one of _you_ should be included in this price tag. Oh-ho- _ho!_ " He crowed out loud as he took another bite, savouring the explosions of flavour. The berry-goodness was so sweet and cloying it felt like it was sinking into his flesh, drying it out and holding it tightly. His lips tingled as he licked the excess juice from them. He then noticed that Geralt and the maid had disappeared up the path and picked up his pace as he skittered after them. 

“Oi! Geralt, you should try this!” 

)()( 

“Enormous,” Jaskier gaped faintly as he craned his neck at the vaulted ceilings. 

“Communal,” Geralt observed with a frown in his voice. Their footsteps slowed and paused as they both turned to their guide, now a serene woman with dark hair. 

“Different places, different customs,” The woman said through a smooth smile, giving them a short bow and turning to sweep from the cavernous chamber. She paused by the double doors and gestured to a large pot laden with tightly rolled drying cloths. 

“Please help yourself to any amenities. He will have to see you at the dinner he’s throwing in a few hours,” Her voice sang out to them pleasantly. The doors seemingly opened of their own accord behind her and with yet another small bow, she left the chambers. The same doors rumbled shut. 

“If this was _before_ the whole killy-killy part had happened, I’d say _she’s_ your monster,” Jaskier declared to Geralt before turning away to traipse the large room in with reluctant awe. Geralt was quiet a moment before he inclined his head, eyebrows flashing upwards in surprised agreement. 

“Just because no one is paying me to kill something doesn’t mean it’s not a monster,” He said as Jaskier dropped his bag onto the plush red seat of a wooden stool against a wall. 

“As patrons of many towns have taught me, just because they have the coin and demand doesn’t mean it _is_ a monster _._ Am I right?” Jaskier said, casting the other man a sly knowing smile. 

“Hmm,” Geralt rumbled in agreement. 

They fell into silence as they stood side by side and looked around. 

It was less a bathroom and more a bath hall; the middle of the space was inlaid with two large pools filled with steaming, bright aquamarine water. The large baths were separated by a stone pathway that led to an open space at the end of the hall - there, narrow gothic windows reached towards the cavernous ceilings and the sunlight poured through blue and green stained glass. A series of large bronze spigots hung from the ceiling over this open space and there was a small drainage trench smoothed into the center of the stone floor that dredged water to the corners of the room, where there were surely drains. The edges of the hall were lined with benches, squashy chairs, large bowls of cloths and oversized pots housing enormous leafy fig trees. A small table against the right wall where Jaskier had set his bag boasted dishes and plates of different pieces of soaps, scrubbing rocks, flower petals and sparkling vials of various oils. 

They both rotated in different directions in place, looking around from the spotless floors to the gently flickering flames in the braziers blazing far above them. When they were facing each other again, both wore equally opposite expressions. The bard was alight with delight and his face had lit up like the morning sun on dark fields and the monster hunter looked perturbed. 

“Is it a luxury if it is shared with 60 people at once?” Geralt asked aloud as Jaskier began undoing the laces on his boots, pressing on hand on the wall as he balanced on one leg. 

“Is it still pleasure if it’s coming from 2 women? What kind of a question is that?” Jaskier retorted shortly as he freed one foot and quickly set to work on the other. 

“At Kaer Morhen -,” Geralt began but Jaskier cut him off with a wave of the hand as he kicked his boots under the chair. 

“Yes, yes,” Jaskier was muffled as he pulled his shirt over his head and then flung it free as he dropped his voice dramatically and said, “At Kaer Morhen, everything is stiff and miserable including our solitary pricks.” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt warned and the bard shrugged his shoulders as he undid his laces and waddled towards a pool, surveying the water as he clutched the waist of his britches to keep them affixed. 

“Everything here looks to be bright and inviting and – sss- _hot_ ,” Jaskier told him loftily as he touched his toes to the misty surface of one pool and jerked it back. 

“Inviting is one word,” Geralt replied tightly as Jaskier approached the other side and also dipped his toes in. The troubadour turned around and scrutinized both baths, trying to decide which one was the temperature he wanted despite the lack of discernible difference to his toes. He chewed his lower lip, finding it both relieved and worsened a bubbling feeling he was trying to ignore. 

“Better than a swamp full of teeth. Geralt,” He asked suddenly as he looked between the green waters, “which one do you want?” 

“I don’t have a preference,” Came the terse reply and Jaskier looked up in time to catch the back of the mutant’s shirt whipping over his shoulders, white hair mussed as he folded it in front of him. With his broad, pale back exposed the scars looked especially pink and raw in the bright but forgiving light. A splay of green sunlight reflected off the water onto the skin of his lower back, highlighting a long claw slash that disappeared down the back of his britches. The fizzing in Jaskier’s lips surged with the impulse to comment on the cut and show of the mutant’s muscles - that was always ill-received, so he concentrated on choosing a tub and dropping his own remaining clothes to get in. 

“Ooooh my,” Jaskier groaned as he slid through the misty green waters. His foot found a gently curved seat in the stone lining the tub. The water was the perfect temperature; it eased every ache in every bone and the tenderness in every muscle. The closer to the surface he was, the softer and brighter green it turned. Jaskier giggled to himself out loud as his eyes closed and he dreamily said, “It feels fuzzy.” 

He relaxed in the water, feeling a different type of warmth settling on his face. The rays of sunlight, tinted green by the glass through which it passed, was still as tender and cloying as it would be outside in the fresh air. Jaskier hummed contentedly, deciding he would stay here for a bit. 

He licked his lips as he forced himself to relax and unwind. He absently tried to think of their last mission and his brain played him a snap of jaws and a monstrous shriek before he shivered to himself and tried again. He cleared his mind, sighed and tried to focus on nothing. Again, a large hulking beast of shiny horned plates and thick, sharp armoured legs upon which it balanced swam through his mind, this time it’s fangs and claws stopped by a blade – a blade supported by Geralt. The Witcher had leapt in front of Jaskier as he failed on his attempt at fleeing. He’d had to throw his weight behind the sword, his legs wide and tense; body angled towards the creature as he pushed back against it. The monster was easily half the size of a tree and it was then that Jaskier had understood the need for the height and breadth of the mutant. 

The blows he struck against the beast were fluid and violent – even though the Witcher was smaller than the monster, he was easily more agile and lithe. He proved far more deadly when he started landing repeated, striking, crushing blows. Tarlike blood that got flung from the blade in exquisite circles as he slashed, ducked, twirled and hacked through the armoured hide was beautiful and enticing. Every strike that punched through the shrieking demons’ plates elicited a shard of awe in the bard, even as he crab-walked backwards away from the fray. 

Geralt bared his teeth a lot; in battle when he was fighting, in frustration when he was hunting, in an annoyance when he was trying not to shout and – once – Jaskier had seen him to do it with lust on his features with a woman in a small town. Now, he wondered how often the expression presented itself. 

He found he appreciated as well as admired the fearsome intensity the Witcher did everything with. 

A sharp, short metallic shriek rent the air and was followed by a loud hissing, which was then overpowered with an even louder spattering of water on stone. 

“I’d be a complete cabbage if I didn’t want to try this,” Geralt announced and Jaskier reluctantly opened his eyes to see what boring mechanism the warrior had found. 

The spigot that hung from the ceiling on stiff bronze tubes was pouring steaming water that fell a series of feet before splashing into an uncountable number of smaller, diamond like droplets off the skin of Geralt’s back. Jaskier’s lazy eye-opening turned to a complete one as he froze in the tub. His lips and tongue suddenly pulsed as he stared. 

Geralt had closed his eyes pleasurably and was rolling his shoulders under the stream, allowing the spray to roughly massage his muscles. His hair was immediately wet, no doubt from him dunking through the pour, and he was nude as the day he was born. Catlike, the Witcher flexed and exposed his sore body to the waterfall, unknowingly giving Jaskier an unabashed view of him at all angles. 

He made a sudden, deep noise that only registered in Jaskier’s head as a groan when his own groin throbbed awake at the sound. 

“Shock of shocks; a hot waterfall is divine,” He called over his shoulder as he turned to expose his chest to the water. His eyes were shut tight against the mist and the bard took his time eyeing the shapely and unflexed muscles of his rear. Some men had a rear end that put women to shame and Jaskier had always been someone to look past a little, or a lot, of hair. 

Geralt was the very definition of the word _taper_ – his wide shoulders were a dizzying contrast to the sharp and tight gather of his narrow hips. His core was thickly muscled, a mark of years of twisting and swinging a sword in battle while controlling a destrier with his thighs. Obviously, years riding horses, fighting with swords, running endlessly over rough landscape and doing other high impact Witcher-related activities made his legs stunningly powerful. 

Every now and again, Jaskier came across a woman whose body was made with the love and attention of a very artistic God. A true masterpiece of smooth lines and luscious, dizzying curves always impressed itself upon him as soon as he saw it before him; Geralt somehow did the same. Despite his slashes and hacks, the chunks missing and skin shaved, the glaring scars and score-marks from arrows, the occasional odd burn from poisons or fire and a few ugly black marks from curses gone wrong, Geralt of Rivia was a work of an incredibly vain and detail-oriented God. Even with his lips pulled back to bare his teeth, the man was attractive in both presence and mind. 

Jaskier waded to the end of the tub absently, caught in his trance of awe. 

Geralt was a tall marble statue silhouetted by a pillar of sea green sunlight, further encompassed by a halo of blindly bright white mist. Water ran down his body in twisting rivuletsand dropped off of every point; a stream fell off his elbow as another forked over his hip and down the outer portion of his thigh. A sheet of the water followed down the rest of his legs and pooled on the floor, rushing towards the edges of the room. Even his penis had water dripping from it as it rested heavily between his legs and Jaskier suddenly found himself wanting to watch the mutant wash. 

His lips were definitely burning now and he found he couldn’t resist as he chuckled. Geralt scrubbed the water from his face and glanced into the pool, searching for a split second before he noticed Jaskier at his feet at the edge. 

“This is why the communal bit is disconcerting,” Geralt said pointedly. 

“I’ve seen you bathe in a puddle,” Jaskier retorted and Geralt fixed him with an exasperated look. 

“You were waiting in the _tree_ line , not within _eye_ line,” He inferred tensely and Jaskier smiled winningly up at him, drunk on the mutant’s obvious skittishness. 

“So, don’t compliment your cock?” 

“No one needs to be told that,” Geralt muttered in response, turning around to hide the aforementioned organ. 

“For what it’s worth, against the ones I’ve seen,” Jaskier said contemplatively before he concluded, “it’s relatively nice, if not very good.” 

Jaskier couldn’t help the open grin at facial expression the Witcher wore. 

“You enjoy my discomfort, don’t you, bard?” Geralt shrewdly observed and the laugh that Jaskier was struggling to reign in burbled out of him. 

“If you weren’t so fun to discomfort, I truly wouldn’t,” He declared affably. 

“And if I were to do the same to you?” 

“Compliment my cock? Why, I think I’d include that in a song,” Jaskier needled, knowing Geralt’s bone-deep aversion to being featured in his many ballads, lullabies and sonatas. His increasingly annoying lips seemed painfully sensitive as he observed Geralt’s butt flexing while the man scraped his fingers through his hair. Belatedly, Jaskier found he had the impulse to bite the round of flesh. 

“What if I were to play into your mock discomfort,” The Witcher said boldly and Jaskier’s expression grew quizzical, his eyebrows doing gymnastics with the thoughts that raced through his head. 

“And how would you...play into my mock discomfort?” He queried with a smirk. 

Geralt turned around and fixed him with an unnervingly focused gaze, which was especially jarring given his vivid yellow eyes and the triumphant smile rolling around the corners of his mouth. His stare dropped and Jaskier’s followed, falling straight to the cock in his hand that had swelled to attention in the time it had been hidden. 

Jaskier’s words died in his throat as his own cock stiffened fully under the water in the space of two heartbeats. His eyes were trained on the heavy stiffness that Geralt seemed to handle with flippant, teasing care until he dared look up into the man’s eyes. There he saw a surprising type of taunting enjoyment before the Witcher raised his brows and pointed downwards with his gaze. 

“A man who compliments cocks surely knows what to do with one,” Geralt suggested with a smugness that made Jaskier lick his now buzzing lips. His breathing was coming in shorter and quicker gasps as he grappled with what to do. 

It was when Geralt’s stroking fingers became bolder in the way they played over the swollen head that Jaskier began to pay close attention. When they became sure and wrapped around the shaft, Jaskier bit his lower lip eagerly and when a second hand fluttered down to start manipulating the plump sack between his legs and Geralt emitted a choked groan that Jaskier cursed aloud and pushed himself out of the water. 

He approached the Witcher with a bravado he didn’t often feel and stared up into his face with painful honesty shining through his soul. 

“To be clear - you’re _asking_ this?” Jaskier demanded and even as he said it, the words seemed slippery and foreign. He struggled to keep from glancing down and his mouth had filled with saliva. Just looking between them at the purpled tip and dusky length made his mouth burn. A strange ache was developing in his jaw and he flexed it finding when he opened his mouth, he only wanted one thing going in. 

“I’m open to alternatives,” Geralt suggested tightly as he gazed into Jaskier’s face. He seemed glazed and stunned, but a languid smirk propped up the steady darkening of his eyes and the faint flush in his cheeks. Water clung to his jaw and lashes, likening him to some sort of bizarre water nymph. 

Jaskier scoffed a laugh before he sunk as gently to his knees as he could, snaring the Witcher’s eyes as he did so. Geralt’s length finally rested against his cheek, hot and silken. All Jaskier needed to do was turn his head _just_ so. He did so and they both groaned as he took Geralt into his mouth. Jaskier needed moment to adjust to the vivid but surreal strangeness of having such an unfamiliar yet familiar thing...in his mouth. Hesitantly, he followed the small tilt of Geralt’s hips and the sound of his halting hisses as he experimented with what to do with his hands. Water still rushed down Geralt’s body and as Jaskier’s hands slid up his thighs and over the bones of his hip to grip the meat of the Witcher’s butt it ran down his arms, dripping off his elbows and spraying down his ribs. Water rushed over his own legs and pooled around his knees. The stone under him was surprisingly warm, although still unforgivably hard. 

As he moved his mouth up and down, he himself moaned at the delicious friction it built against his lips and tongue. He wanted to move faster and pressed himself closer, his one hand questing further up the pane of Geralt’s back as if he were at worship. He was hesitant at first, suddenly aware he didn’t have a method of getting what he wanted for both of them and not having the time to adapt. He moved his tongue in a way he’d had done to him and was rewarded with Geralt’s teeth making an appearance as he grunted in pleasure. Impulsively Jaskier attempted to speed things up with the use of his other hand, almost choking as he groaned at the wave of pleasure that welled from his mouth. It was a strange sensation but he was beholden to it; he was quickly losing his focus on giving pleasure rather than taking it. Under his tongue was momentarily both sore and sensitive before his mouth gushed with saliva as Jaskier shuddered and moaned, convulsing slightly as the acute bliss moved up his spine. Geralt’s large fingers sifted through his hair and Jaskier heard a sharp moan that had him bobbing is head again, chasing Geralt’s gratification. He was nearly blinded by the painful need for more echoing from his mouth, his stiff nipples and straining cock. 

As the hand in his hair jerked his head faster, it became too much and it felt like he’d bitten into the world’s most sour and sweet lemon at the same time. His sudden moans were drawn out and muffled as he spasmed and whimpered, his release striping the floor between Geralt’s ankles in four pulses. 

He was barely coherent as the cock was pulled out of his mouth and his hooded eyes met Geralt’s luminescent yellow ones when the mutant hauled him to his shaky feet and they panted in each other's faces. 

“How’s the tub?” Geralt asked with a rough voice, thick with lust. 

“Huh?” The bard gaped. 

Geralt’s warm body against his was hard to argue with, even as he was backed up and steered towards the shimmering green waters of the pool. He awkwardly splashed back into the depths, his ears still ringing from his sudden climax as he stumbled to a seated position in the pool. 

“Sorry, I -,” He began apologetically, turning to his side sheepishly as Geralt sat beside him. 

He barely got the chance to register Geralt’s face was too close to his before the Witcher’s lips crashed into his own. Jaskier’s eyes sprang open in surprise before they half closed as he attempted to respond to the kiss. Geralt’s hand was heavy and unmistakably calloused under the water as is moved up his thighs. Jaskier’s hips jerked under the surface of the water as Geralt wrapped his fingers around a very sensitive and somehow still hard member. 

“All is not lost,” He breathed and Jaskier let out a small chuckle of confusion as he accepted the sudden wellspring of intensity. It was as if a cork had popped out of an amphora on its side and the wine was pouring with abandon – Geralt was nipping at his jawline and drawing more spams and twitches out of Jaskier as he stroked him, creating little waves in the water to accompany the bard’s gasps and moans. 

His mouth found Jaskier’s again and everything stopped. Geralt gently and gingerly sealed their mouths together; it was tender and uncertain, like a baby deer trying to stand. 

Something sour and white hot punched Jaskier in all his senses, blinding him to nothing but pain. 

Jaskier ripped away and shrieked, his hands going to clap over a mouth that suddenly felt as if it were full of acid. He spat black bubbles into the water and touched his lips in a panic and when he glanced at Geralt, he uttered another yell and scrambled away as fast as the chest height water would allow. 

“No, it’s not possible. No, I already have you! No! No!” 

There was a fetid, rotting creature resembling an old woman in the pool where Geralt had been, screaming after him. Her skin bagged in countless folds and her breasts drooped well below the water line. Her pale scalp was visible through the hanks of matted, wet hair and her eye sockets were empty, wet holes of rot as they fixed themselves on the poet. 

Jaskier screamed and made for the edge of the pool. 

“Noooo!” 

The furious howl rose up around him and he tripped, falling into the water. He found as he twisted under the surface and clawed with his hands, he couldn’t find the top. He kicked out and found nothing as he desperately swam up, the bright green waters suddenly depthless and black. His mouth felt foul, as if he’d eaten a sour puddle outside of a smelting mill and it burned like he been forced to drink boiled water. 

He felt a change in the water, from above. Everything began to rush past him, sucked upwards and as the water began to move, so did Jaskier’s struggling form. He was yarded backwards and the crushing weight forced water into his lungs. Blackness ebbed into his vision and with one final struggling kick, he gave up. 

)()( 

If there was ever a sensation of a wave ejecting one from an ocean, Jaskier experienced it as he rolled over and violently threw up. 

He was hacking and coughing still, weakly wiping his face with the back of his hand when he noticed familiar boots standing beside his new puddle of sick. 

“Ugh,” Jaskier groaned before weakly cocking his head to look up. 

Geralt glared down at him, his ochre eyes more yellow to match the barely contained anger on his face. Jaskier nodded to no one in particular as he looked down at the floor again and noticed most of what he’d thrown up appeared to be water. He burped loudly before he sat up and casually greeted, “Geralt.” 

“Can you sense how close you came to dying?” The Witcher demanded. Without looking up from where he’d propped his forehead on one hand he gestured to the side of the bed before he guessed, “Very.” 

“ _Very_ is an understatement,” Geralt snarled at him and Jaskier blanched at the savagery in his voice. He took the momentary furious silence to use the side of his fist to knock on his sternum and dislodge a burp. The burning in his mouth was no longer, although the intensity of the sensation lingered. 

“What happened?” He finally asked as Geralt dropped into a wide but sturdy looking wooden chair and leaned his elbows on his knees. He always looked especially tall when he did that. The Witcher regarded him sardonically. 

“You,” He declared. 

“I happened to me?” Jaskier joked, “Seems unlikely.” 

“Jaskier, you ate a fruit out of a magic garden. Anyone else, I’d have left you for Destiny,” Geralt informed him and Jaskier made a face at him. 

“A magic fruit?” 

“A _cursed_ fruit,” A woman’s voice drifted from over Geralt’s shoulder as a bronze skinned woman in a deep red dress materialized from the shadows. She had wickedly dark brown almond eyes and curly dark hair. 

“This is Lenna. She helped save you. Your antidote was not... _easy_ ,” Geralt supplied tensely as he acknowledged her approach from the shadows. Jaskier’s eyes went back and forth between the two of them in confusion. He’d never heard anything of this woman before. 

“Is she ...special? You know lots of mages who could help,” He hedged suspiciously as he watched her benign smile fix itself in place while she folded her hands in front of her gently. 

“They couldn’t,” Geralt replied shortly and the woman’s eyes seemed to shimmer in the dim light. 

“And you are?” Jaskier asked her pointedly, unsatisfied with Geralt’s lack of information. 

“A friend,” Geralt interrupted but the woman tossed her head corrected him gently as she said, “A friend of a friend of a friend. Doing a favour for a favour...because of a favour.” 

“Well,” Jaskier trailed uncertainly as he stared at her, “that clears it up.” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled at him and the woman let out a short laugh and waved her hand at the mutant as she stepped closer to the bed. 

“I specialize in potions and healing magics, old and complicated. Powerful. Curse breaking is a hobby. Rare curses, to be specific. I’m not part of your mages’ little Lodge. Your Witcher had to call in... a few favours,” She threw over her shoulder and Geralt’s jaw flexed angrily before he turned his head to glare out a narrow window on the left side of the room. 

“Favours,” Jaskier repeated to pressure him as Geralt rolled his eyes at their exchange and didn’t offer any answer. A silence filled the room that the Witcher seemed perfectly content to let linger. The woman waved a hand in the air lazily, the gold bangles on her wrist clinging musically as she leaned forwards slightly. 

“He went to the Elves for you, silvertongue,” She all but sang. Only then did he notice the swinging earrings she wore, and his eyes trailed up to spy the gentle point in her ears as the words died in his throat. 

“I thought...I thought Sages didn’t exist.” 

“They don’t anymore. I am changing that,” She offered shortly. 

“Lenna, please,” Geralt snapped and the she-elf stepped away from the bed as Jaskier fixed his astonished eyes on Geralt again, who looked like an unimpressed statue. 

“The fig tree was cursed. A mage fell in love with one of Gespian’s ancestors, who in turn married a human woman for love. The mage wasn’t invited to the wedding; she sent this tree as a wedding gift and the couple ate it’s fruit and fell into a trance.” 

"And then?"

“Then they orgasmed until they died,” Lenna supplied cheerfully from a table on the far side of the room. She smirked at Jaskier, who pointedly ignored it despite the hot flush rising in his cheeks. Geralt’s expression remained stiff and unchanged, as if he hadn’t heard her. 

“And... she had the recipe for the potion to wake me,” Jaskier surmised out loud, jerking his chin at Lenna as his brain played him an image of the soaked hag shrieking her despair as he struggled to flee her. 

“The recipe yes, but not all the ingredients. That was left to your friend here. The tricky part was he had to get the right one the first time or you'd never wake,” Lenna interjected again despite Geralt’s growing visible annoyance. Jaskier frowned. 

“The right one? How many are there? What was the ingredient? A kind word from Yennefer?” 

Geralt sighed as he pinned Jaskier with a frustrated look. 

“The saliva of the person you desire most. I saw the Countess de Stael.” 

Jaskier sat up, his eyes open wide and his body suddenly hot with panic. 

“And she...helped you?” 

“Not willingly,” Geralt intoned stiffly and Jaskier deflated as he sank against the pillows. Lenna was staring hard at Geralt, presumably for coming clean with their little game. 

“Thank-you, I guess. You woke me just in time,” Jaskier said honestly and looked up at Geralt, whose jaw flexed as he exhaled heavily out his nose. 

He seemed to consider a moment before he inclined his head in acceptance of gratitude. 

He suddenly held Jaskier’s eyes and in that moment, it seemed he was trying to communicate an understanding – it was similar to relief after strife, exhaustion or wear and something else. The realization that the mutant had been afraid sunk in slowly and Jaskier slowly nodded his head. Geralt glanced at the elf, who was leaning against her table with crossed arms watching them. Then he turned back to the bard and his face was closed, business resuming as usual. 

“We’re to leave at sunrise. We’re running out of coin to stay here,” He informed Jaskier, who was suddenly aghast at the prospect of sitting horseback for another fortnight. 

“Did you not just get paid for killing a beastie for a man who lives in a _castle_?” He demanded and Geralt looked back at him plainly, as if the answer was obvious. 

“No, not when you eat people’s cursed figs,” He replied dourly before he flicked a glance at Lenna and continued, “I’m in your debt.” 

She pursed her lips and shook her head once, tightly. 

“The last thing I need is a Witcher indebted to me. You bring more storms than sun,” Lenna told him sweetly, her smile suddenly not reaching her eyes. Geralt’s nostrils flared slightly, otherwise his face didn’t change with her statement. Instead, he nodded at her as well and with a brief final look at Jaskier, turned and stalked from the room. 

The door snapped shut and a silence fell. 

Jaskier’s gaze wandered to Lenna sheepishly and the Sage’s head seemed to twitch before she fixed him with her unusual gaze. He saw a flash of a slatted pupil before she smiled warmly at him and he was struck with the impulse to liken her to a smug cat. She stood and moved from the table, the silk of her skirts rustling with mystery. The candlelight glinted off the gold links that hung like chandeliers off her ears, the metal complimenting her skin as she sat at the foot of his bed and folded her delicate hands in her lap. 

“Don’t pity me. That’s how he is whenever there’s an emotion in the room,” Jaskier tried to joke but the humor died in his throat as he met her prodding gaze and found honesty in her features. 

“What he said just now? Do you remember his face as he said it?” She asked in her strange, lilting accent. Jaskier raised one eyebrow briefly before he nodded slowly. 

“Yes, it just happened,” He told her and gestured to the space Geralt recently vacated. A smirk flickered across her face before it was eaten by a predatory smile. 

“You should remember it. It’s the face he makes when he lies.” 

Jaskier stared at her, the statement echoing in his head dumbly. He frowned and shook his fringe free from his brow to query, “What could he have been lying about?” 

“While the Countess de Stael, whomever she is, sounds like a lucky lady...she was not involved in waking you,” Lenna told him. Her smile was growing as she watched him think, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. She nodded encouragingly as she confirmed, “The ingredient wasn’t the saliva of the person you most desire.” 

Jaskier shook his head in confusion, his features twisting in disbelief. 

“What was the ingredient then?” He challenged. 

Lenna’s face practically glowed as she leaned forwards, the beautiful grin almost sinister as it reached for her ears. Her hand snaked around his shin and pinned his leg tightly to the bed and Jaskier’s eyes darted nervously from that point of contact to the door which Geralt had shut. 

“The saliva of the person in the fantasy with you, of course.” 

He immediately returned to her, his mouth opening slowly as they met each other’s eyes. Her brown ones danced with merriment and his blue ones widened with growing, gnawing horror. 

“No.” 

“Oh, yes,” Lenna all but purred at him. Jaskier sat up, the blankets falling to his waist as he forgot any bashfulness and he grabbed at her forearm frantically. 

“Tell me you’re just his type and you’re a jealous vengeful psycho and this is just you trying to warn me off of something,” He gasped and she had the audacity to let out a rather indelicate full-bellied laugh. Then she gave him a wry, apologetic look and patted his shin before she stood and swept back to her table of herbs and spices. 

Jaskier stared at the bumps of his feet under the blanket in echoing, damned shock. 

“Actually,” He finally tried in a strained voice as she packed delicate bottles into a leather satchel, “you should just poison me. Call it a complication from the spell.” 

Lenna faced him now, dropping one ear to the top of her shoulder as she crossed her arms and surveyed him with amusement. 

“Humans are so adorable when they get embarrassed. If you travel with a Witcher, dear poet, there’s something I’ll tell you simply because you haven’t the time to learn it the hard way. Witchers are known to mages and elves. Geralt of Rivia...is _very_ known to mages,” She said and the predatory smirk graced her features for a moment as she seemed to indulge in some sort of salacious secret. Jaskier made a face she didn’t seem to see as she approached the bed again, her steps full of arrogance before she leaned sumptuously against one of the beams for the bed. 

“Geralt of Rivia is a traveler of hidden waters just as much as you, silvertongue.” 

“If the waters are rapids, then yes,” Jaskier interjected irritably. Her hand gently lifted between them and he watched as she reached out and tucked an errant tuft of his hair behind on ear, lovingly, as if he were a child. He met her eyes, finding the secrets and magics swirling in her scrutiny entrancing and captivating, pulling him in as if he wanted to live in there with them. 

“Everything in this world comes in shades of grey – morals, magics and man. Sometimes people don’t have to cross the river for herbs they can find on their own bank. If you can do the work to understand that before you die, there’s happiness you can’t imagine just laying in the shadows,” Lenna told him earnestly, the merriment solidifying on her face into determined sincerity. Something older than both of them lurked behind her eyes and Jaskier’s head spun. 

“Was it his idea?” 

Lenna shook her head and swelled with pride. 

“It was mine. It stands to reason; you’ve travelled a lot together alone in the last year. Geralt insisted you were a philanderer and eyes don’t stop being eyes. When he fought it, I sought the help of a human mage to convince him.” 

“Oh _no_ ,” Jaskier moaned out loud and both his hands slapped over his face. Lenna quirked an eyebrow as she observed him. 

“You know Triss Merigold?” 

“Oh,” Jaskier’s hands popped a few inches away from his face and he brightened considerably for a moment before his face fell again, “Oh, so she knows.” 

“Only if she finds out you live,” Lenna offered him and Jaskier only barely managed not to glare crossly at her. 

“Wonderful,” He replied woodenly. Lenna lifted one shoulder in a small shrug before she left his bedside to pick up her satchel, slinging it over her body. The simple ruggedness of the bag clashed horribly with the ornate gold designs stitched into her blood red dress. 

“It was lovely to meet you, Julian Alfred Pankratz - a friend to Geralt of Rivia,” Lenna told him solemnly and Jaskier blanched as he threw the covers back, revealing his smallclothes. He groaned as he sat up, the effort seemingly titanic in the face of everything. His bones even felt empty. 

“Oh, please, call me Viscount de Lettenhove,” He sighed with exhaustion as he came up from his slouch for air, bracing his palms on his knees in preparation to stand and stagger to the privy behind a screen. 

“Until next time, Viscount de Lettenhove,” Lenna said with a mirthful smile in her tone and Jaskier turned to wave her through the door and found the space empty. He paused, glancing around the room suspiciously and seeing nothing but lit candles and sparsely used furniture. He scoffed to himself and shook his head. He thought of the coming days and how he was supposed to ride behind Geralt. Somehow, he was not to feel shame while also seeing images of the mutant’s head thrown back, sun kissed drops of water leaping off his taut skin like rainbows. Droplets of magic sliding through the divots and valleys of the muscles in his lower abdomen and rolling tauntingly downwards. 

Jaskier sighed and spoke aloud wistfully. 

“Maybe I can make this into a jig.” 

**Author's Note:**

> hello. 
> 
> \- if you're a reader of mine you know this is un-beta'd and all mistakes are all natural and all me, baby  
> \- some research indicates sages are a real thing in this lore, mainly incredibly rare and thought died out. their magics and lineage is related to/similar to ciri's. if you hate that Lenna is a sage, you'll have to take it up with her because she basically wrote herself  
> \- figs are deeply buried in multiple cultures as symbolism for male sexuality and fertility  
> \- i wanted an excuse to play with the 'sex pollen' trope + this story does not take place in any timeline  
> \- i love a little bit of sexual angst and that's all this story is so if that's not your thing, sorry. i don't plan on resolving this.  
> \- if you are disappointed in the lack of real!Geralt and sex, please see my other fic Just Friends 
> 
> okay on a scale of one to fun, lemme know how things went.


End file.
